


New and Different

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, So fluffy you could get cavities just from reading it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:39:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg meets Mycroft for the first time, and John returns home to Sherlock after a trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flo-fromprogressive](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=flo-fromprogressive).



> This was written as a gift in the Sherlock Secret Santa Re-Gift Exchange (for those passed over the first time). My giftee is flo-fromprogressive, who asked for art, craft, or a story:
> 
> Some prompts would be:  
> 1\. Mycroft and Lestrade first meeting (Mystrade fan)  
> 2\. Johnlock clothes switch  
> 3\. something to do with tea  
> 4\. Something to do with chocolate
> 
> (Plot Twist: I did them all! Mystrade first meeting, something to do with tea AND Johnlock clothing switch, something to do with chocolate.)
> 
> As an under 18, she didn't want to receive anything hardcore.
> 
> Since I can't do anything sexy that isn't hardcore, I decided to go with some "hardcore fluff" instead! LOL
> 
> I hope you like it! Happy (belated) Christmas, flo-fromprogressive!

Greg had been shuffling up and down the aisles of Tesco for what felt like ages, still decidedly unaccustomed to shopping for himself after the divorce. He’d take a nutter with a gun pointed at his head over the dairy section of the supermarket any day. Whole milk, 2%, skim, soy milk, almond milk, heavy whipping cream—which, as he’d learned the hard way, did _not_ come pre-whipped. Criminals were far less intimidating; he was good at dealing with criminals. And the only thing worse than dairy was tea. _Why are there so bloody many choices?_ After a painstaking decision-making process, he reached for the last box of Earl Grey only to see an immaculately manicured and unquestionably feminine hand snatch it out of his grasp.

“Oi! I was gonna buy that,” he huffed in the general direction of the hand’s owner.

“Mm. I’m sure you were. And now—” She glanced up from her Blackberry only briefly to give him a condescending smirk. “—you’re not.”

“What gives you the right? I already had my hand on it.”

“British government, national security, whatever. I’m sure you understand.”

“No, I can’t say as I do.” Usually Greg would have let it go, but he’d already been in the store for quite some time, and he wasn’t about to start over on choosing a new type of tea to purchase. Shopping was hard.

“Aww... it’s too bad I don’t have the time—” She was cut off by the weight of an umbrella resting on her shoulder and the sound of a commanding voice at her back.

“Anthea, dear, do be kind to the detective inspector, will you? Let him have the tea.”

The confusion on her face came and went so quickly it might have gone unnoticed by anyone other than one of the Yard’s best.

“Cheers,” Greg said once Anthea handed him the box with a shrug and meandered away.

“Certainly.”

“And you are?”

“Ah. We’ve never been properly introduced. Holmes—” The man extended his hand. “ _Mycroft_ Holmes, that is. I believe you occasionally employ the talents of my younger brother.” He spat the end of the sentence like it was some vile, bitter thing that had taken up unwelcome residence on his tongue, but he smiled all the while. To say it was unnerving…

“Oh. Oh, god. You’re Sherlock’s brother.” Greg took the offered hand, but his shake was weak. Something about the tall, ginger man in front of him disarmed him, made him vulnerable. “I… I mean… you don’t…” _Get ahold of yourself, man!_ “It’s just… there’s not much of a family resemblance is all.”

Mycroft’s grin widened to into something more genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah. O’ course. It is, I suppose.”

“You know—” Mycroft twirled his brolly handle in his palm, spinning its tip against the tile at his feet. “—Seeing as how I’m sacrificing the last box of tea to you, the least you could do is invite me along to have a cup.”

“Oh, I… uh…” Greg dropped his gaze and scrubbed his palm against the back of his neck. Suddenly, he was a schoolboy again, being asked out by the prettiest girl in his class. The heat of blush crept across his cheeks, and he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. “Sure, if you’d like.”

“Excellent. My car’s out front. Come along.”

Greg started to follow before his senses once again took hold. “Wait. My stuff.”

“Anthea, darling.” Mycroft nodded toward Greg’s shopping, and the young woman—who had once again appeared, seemingly out of nowhere –gave him a look of acknowledgment before placing her hand on the trolley. Apparently satisfied with her reaction, he turned his attention back to Greg. “Consider it handled. It’ll be sent along shortly.”

“But—” Greg started to protest, but Mycroft was already walking toward the exit. He hurried to catch up, the Earl Grey still in his hands.

***

The ride to Greg’s flat was mostly silent—the sort of silence that may have been comfortable if the air hadn’t been so goddamn thick. Greg was the first to speak. “Do you even know where I live?”

“Mm. I make it my business to know where the Met’s best detective lays his head.”

“Oh… right… sure.” The information was a bit slow to process. “Wait. The best?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Detective. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Nah. I suppose not.” He chuckled as the car went silent again and remained as such until it pulled up in front of Greg’s flat. He ascended the stairs still clutching the box of tea, Mycroft trailing behind. “You’ll have to forgive the state of the place,” he said, unlocking the door. “It’s still a bit of a wreck. I’m only just getting settled, what with the recent divorce and all.”

“Hm. Recent divorce?” Mycroft asked, not sounding the least bit surprised. He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “Pity.”

Greg chuckled from the kitchen, where he was filling the kettle. “As if you didn’t know. For Christ’s sake, you knew where I lived. Let’s not pretend you didn’t know about the divorce.”

“If you insist.”

“Jesus!” Greg started at the closeness of Mycroft’s voice from where he leaned against the doorway, Mycroft’s icy gaze raking over him. “You can sit down, you know?”

“Of course. Will you keep me company?”

Greg lit the stove, placed the kettle on the burner nearest him, and nodded. They retreated to the parlour and sat side-by-side on the sofa. It was Greg who finally broke the silence that stretched between them. “You must have really wanted that cup of tea, huh?”

Mycroft crossed his legs with more grace than seemed humanly possible and folded his hands over his knee. He looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “You know, Gregory—May I call you Gregory?”

With a terse nod, Greg swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. “If you like.”

“Mm. I certainly do.” Mycroft smiled what appeared to be an honest-to-god smile. “As I was saying, Gregory—”

The sound of his proper name on such proper lips gave Greg pause. The strange clenching in his chest and flip-flopping of his stomach set him on edge with an oddly pleasant sort of unease.

“As a man who knows what he wants and is accustomed to getting it,” Mycroft continued, “I must say that cup of tea isn’t really very high on my list.”

A long, thin finger trailed along the back of Greg’s hand and down the length of his own middle finger, and he felt something he’d not experienced since the first time his now-ex-wife had flirtatiously placed her hand on his wrist the day he asked her out. He squirmed a bit at his unexpected reaction and thanked any deity who might listen when the kettle squealed a few long seconds later. Quickly getting to his feet, he waited until his back was turned to adjust himself in his tightening trousers and went to retrieve the cups of tea that neither of them really seemed to want.

He set one cup in front of Mycroft and the other in front of his own vacant seat before going back for milk and sugar. When he returned, he sat a bit closer to the elder Holmes than was strictly necessary, their knees and thighs close enough to give off warmth but not quite touching. And, as he took a sip, he wasn’t sure if the heat swirling in his gut was more the fault of his beverage or his guest. They drank in relative silence with but a few shared glances.

When Mycroft finished, he placed the empty cup on the table and stood, buttoning his jacket and brushing invisible lint from his lapel. “Thanks for your hospitality, but I’m afraid I must be going. My car’s waiting.”

“Of course. Your car—” Greg stood to join him when reality suddenly came crashing down around his ears. “Oh, god. My bloody car. I left it at Tesco. I’m still on duty,” he said, talking more to himself than anyone else.

Mycroft chuckled. “You needn’t give it a second thought. Your car and shopping will be delivered shortly, and I’ve had word sent to the Met that you were needed elsewhere. You aren’t expected back until morning.”

“Wha— how?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Mycroft tutted, crossing the room toward the door and lifting his umbrella from where he’d leaned it against the wall. “A magician never reveals his tricks. Good day, Gregory.”

Mycroft had one hand on the doorknob before Greg closed the distance between them. His hand joined the one already on the cool brass, and he instantly felt the same flutter he’d felt before. Before he had time to convince himself not to, he leaned up and pressed a timid kiss to Mycroft’s lips, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders when he felt the man melt against him and kiss back in earnest.

When the kiss broke, Greg pulled back a bit. The apology he intended to make died in his throat when he saw a certain softness in the eyes looking back at him. “Seems I’ve unexpectedly gotten the night off. Can I take you to dinner?”

Mycroft’s lips curled into a grin that Greg saw evidenced only by the creases near his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Makes two of us,” Greg breathed.

“Fair enough. My treat, though.” Mycroft pressed another lingering kiss to Greg’s lips. “After all, I was just served the most remarkable cup of tea.”


	2. Different

Never would colder nights come to pass than the ones that forced John and Sherlock to sleep apart. Sure, they’d spent years sleeping separately before they were… well… that’s tricky. To suggest they were ever just colleagues or flat mates or even friends would diminish the instant bond they’d formed the day they first met. But they were more now—much, much more –and had been for quite some time. In fact, they’d been romantically involved for long enough that most might imagine they’d be growing tired of one another or would, at the very least, appreciate a bit of time away. And what those people would be was absolutely incorrect.

John had already been away for five days—five days too long, if you asked him –and was meant to be gone for two more. However, what was meant to be and what came to pass were two very different things. Making excuses and changing flights were far too tempting to resist when the only things keeping him away were a boring medical conference and a cold, empty bed.

The only available flight out was a red-eye, so to say it was late would be quite an understatement. He ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, apparently having forgotten that he lived with a man who mostly only slept after being begged or remarkably well-shagged—sometimes both. Regardless, neither of those cards would have been in play that night—at least, they better not have been.

When he opened the door, the long, lean silhouette stretched in front of a roaring fire didn’t even move.

“I told you I was fine, Mrs. Hudson. Go back to bed,” Sherlock murmured.

“Oh, I’m disappointed. I thought surely you could tell the difference between your housekeeper and your landlady,” John mused as he dropped his bags and crossed the room to sit next to his seemingly forlorn love.

“John!” Sherlock’s eyes lit like those of an excitable child on Christmas morning. “You’re home early!” He scrambled to his knees and wrapped John up in a tight, clinging embrace.

“You know me, just couldn’t stay away. Not when I had this waiting on me.” He hugged back for several long moments before wriggling free from Sherlock’s arms and finally taking a full breath. “What’re you doing?” he asked, picking through the colourful foil wrappers lying all over the floor around Sherlock.

“Eating chocolate.”

“Well, yes, I can see that. But why exactly?”

Sherlock sighed. “Because I missed you, and that’s what people on telly do when they’re lonely. Seemed worth trying.”

“Is it working?”

“Not in the slightest. It’s an utterly worthless practice, so far as I can tell.”

“How much of it have you eaten?” John reached for the bag.

“Quite a bit.” Sherlock quickly snatched it from his grasp, tucking it under his arm for safe keeping. “I missed you a lot.”

“Clearly.” John couldn’t help but smile. “If I’d known it was so easy to get you to eat, I’d have gone away ages ago.”

“Cruel!” Sherlock threw the mostly empty bag at John’s chest in feigned offense and dove headlong after it, knocking John back.

John lay contently with most of Sherlock’s weight pressing down on him and reached up to move an errant curl off the detective’s forehead. “I miss you too, you know. That’s why I came back so soon.”

“Soon?” Sherlock pressed a soft, almost chaste, kiss to John’s lips. “It’s been five days, 7 hours, and—” He checked the time. “—fourteen minutes since I last did that. I’d hardly call it soon.”

“Sooner than intended,” John said, amending his previous statement. “Kiss me again.”

And, as Sherlock did, John slipped his hand between Sherlock’s body and his blue dressing gown. But what he found wasn’t exactly what he’d anticipated. The expectation of warm flesh was replaced by the roughness of cable-knit yarn. He pulled out of the kiss, completely perplexed, and opened the robe to reveal an old, familiar, oatmeal-coloured garment.

“Sherlock… are you wearing my jumper?”

In the dim of firelight, it was nearly impossible to see the pale blush that fell across Sherlock’s cheeks. “I already told you I missed you. I just—”

“Hey… no… it’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s sort of sweet, actually.”

“I know it’s rather sentimental, but—”

John cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips. “But nothing. Look.” He worked open the button and zip of his jeans and pulled back to fly to expose a pair of white Y-front pants with black piping and the image of a bee emblazoned on them.

 Sherlock cracked a broad smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not the grown man who owns a pair of bee pants.”

“Mm. And bright red is far more grown up?”

John scowled. “Hey! You love those pants!”

“Not as much as I love you.” Sherlock unwrapped a bit of chocolate and held it between his teeth, at least half of it still jutting out from his lips.

When he leaned in, John bit down on his portion, and they kissed around the confection. After the kiss broke, they were both giggled while they chewed.

“I love you, too,” John finally replied once he’d swallowed.

“Doctor Watson—” Sherlock sighed again. “—I’d like nothing more right now than to take you to bed.”

A look of concern briefly crossed John’s face. “Do you mean, like, sex?”

“Oh, god, no.” Sherlock shook his head as if he was put off by the very idea of it. “I don’t think I could stay awake through it… no offense, of course.”

“Ah, thank fuck.” John dropped his head to the floor. “I’m shattered.”

“In the morning, though?”

“Oh, yes!”

And, with that, they headed off to bed. They drifted off to sleep that night, still in one another’s clothes, and thankful to be back in one another’s arms as well. It was a good night.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if you now have cavities or are vomiting rainbows. Feel free to leave me comments! :)


End file.
